


Men With Great Coats

by CharleyFoxtrot



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: BAMF!John, F/F, F/M, Gen, Guns, Lots of gay sex, M/M, Multi, This is supposed to be present tense, but sometimes it slips into past tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man in the great coat, John has learned, usually knows what's going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE – “FUCK THIS.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a kinkmeme prompt I found here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=91147030#t91147030  
> When Sherlock is finally able to return, "shocked" isn't a strong enough word for what he feels when he finds that John hasn't stayed in London for the last three years. He's been off the radar himself, being a bamf! and saving the world from a surprisingly long list of non-Moriarty related threats from other fandoms.  
> He could be:  
> Hunting with the Winchesters (SPN), helping Buffy Summers et al train mini-Slayers and kicking evil's ass (BtVS), another good man in the Doctor's war (DW), Torchwood's new doctor (TW), adjusting to having government secrets in his head (Chuck), helping Wesley take down the Fraternity (Wanted), dealing with a new superpower and its implications (Just about any fandom, but there's Heroes/XMEN/Misfits/etc.) These just being the fandoms of recent obsession. I could go on, but there's not enough internet ;)  
> Virtually any fandom anon desires, so long as John has definitely not been sitting back and feeling sorry for himself instead of kicking serious ass as he's meant to.  
> Bonus: Not even Mycroft knows all the details behind John's badassery.  
> Happy reunions always loved, but this anon would be just as happy with something bittersweet.
> 
>  
> 
> \----------------------------
> 
> This fic has been abandoned. Sorry.
> 
> THIS FIC IS UN-BETA'D AND NOT BRIT-PICKED. I am exceedingly lazy. Apologies all around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AS OF MAY 19, I AM REWRITING THIS AND WRITING AGAIN.

John is walking home from Tesco when he's attacked by a woman who looks like a cat.

Now, John has spent the last year or so coming to terms with his best friend and flatmate's suicide, but that hardly means he's a weakling. He's still a doctor (has actually been working at the A&E, so he's got pretty good reflexes); he knows _exactly_ where pressure points can be activated on a human body. Being somewhat familiar with feline biology he can even extrapolate what weaknesses this woman has. That he's considering these possibilities before pondering the fact that this woman looks like a goddamned Siamese _cat_ speaks to the kind of person he is – John Watson is a military man, and when you're taken hostage, there are certain things you do.

First, assess the situation.

 _Right_. Cat-woman behind him. There's something cold pressed into his left temple, and John's fairly certain that it's a weapon of some sort. A group of people who appear to be completely normal (at least – as far as John can ascertain – they don't have any strong resemblance to a feline) is assembled before him, and from the looks on their faces he's going to take his assumption of weaponry as fact.

Next, spot potential escape routes and weaknesses.

Assuming that the weapon is a long-range weapon akin to his SIG, he could easily get harmed if he just tried to run away, so the best option is to disarm Catwoman. He can see out of the corner of his eye that her hands are shaped strangely, with claws and pads; he can just barely spot the knot of tendons that he thinks will retract her claws. This could (he's fairly certain, anyway) distract her into loosening her hold on the weapon.

Last, formulate a plan and activate it.

His bags are scattered at his feet so he doesn't need to worry about putting them down. This should go simply: retract claws with his left hand, knock weapon away with right. Using the leverage from that movement, grasp the woman's upper arm and throw all of your weight into it, John Watson, and get her the _fuck_ away from you.

He can hear shouting: the people in front of him are apparently trying to save his life, placating the woman, and she's shouting back at them angrily. Whatever it is they're saying is beyond him, and John decides that he's had enough.

“Fuck this,” he says, and he implements his plan. It goes off without a hitch and at the last second he remembers his trusty SIG, tucked in the back of his trousers. As he throws the woman to the ground, he draws it and points it at her.

Then he eyes the man in the great coat. The man in the great coat, John has learned, usually knows what's going on.

“If you tell me what just happened, I've bought tea,” he says, mildly, nodding to his discarded bags.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

The cat-woman is bound up and sitting in Sherlock's old chair. The rest of this motley crew (an-average looking Welsh couple, an attractive black American man, and the other attractive American in the great coat) are scattered about the sitting room.

“CatKind,” Great Coat Guy saying, gesturing to their prisoner. “In the future, human beings evolve into a whole lot of different things, including this.”

John is less surprised to hear about the time travel aspect of it than he'd think. After that absolutely crazy business with everyone becoming briefly immortal, he'd accept anything. _Lord_ , he was glad that was over with. St. Bart's had been overwhelmed for months afterward.

He hands around mugs of tea (earl grey, which is what he's been drinking since Sherlock took a swan dive off of St. Bart's roof last year; couldn't go back to drinking regular tea) and sits at the table. The couple and the black man are sitting at the couch, and Great Coat Guy is sitting in John's usual spot by the fire, his gun pointed at the cat-lady.

“Right,” John said, pausing briefly to take a sip of tea. “My name is John Watson, and I'd _very_ much like to know who you all are.”

There's a silence and then the Welsh woman speaks. “John Watson? _Doctor_ John Watson?”

John sighs. He ought to have known this was coming. “Yep, deluded best friend of Sherlock Holmes. That'd be me.”

“Not so deluded, I think,” says Great Coat Guy, narrowing his eyes and _looking_ , really _observing_. His examination of John pierces through him, sending a ripple down his spine. “Captain Jack Harkness,” he continues, standing up and holding out his hand, which John shakes. His grip is firm and dry: a confident sort of handshake, the sort of man who is capable and assured of his skills. 

Harkness gestures to the couple. “Rhys Williams and Gwen Cooper, and our associate Rex Matheson. If it weren't classified, you'd know us as the people who saved the world from immortality.” He grinned. “Torchwood, at your service.”

“Ah,” John says. He blows across his tea. “As a doctor, I thank you heartily. Bad business, that.” Then he frowns. “As a soldier I should probably be cross with you, but I'll skip that in favor of an explanation.” He nods toward the cat woman again.

“Right,” Harkness says, still grinning. He sits back down. “Right. Well, the long of it is that she stole something of ours that we need, and we had to get it back.” He eyes her. “Without a full security clearance I'm afraid I can't tell you more.”

John raises his eyebrow. “If you're a government agency that deals in security clearances then you know that Mycroft Holmes has me cleared for almost everything you can throw at me.” He sips his tea again: tea busies his hands and keeps him from getting too annoyed at being kept in the dark. After Sherlock, he has a Serious Problem with being kept in the dark, ever.

“Right,” Harkness said, completely unfazed by John's casual mention of the British Government by name. “But you still don't have a _full_ security clearance, so I'm afraid I can't tell you. We're one of the few things we _can't_ throw at you.”

Harkness leans back in his chair and has some sort of eye-discussion with Gwen. They both have very expressive faces and if John knew what they were arguing about, he's pretty sure he could have followed the thread of it. 

Being best mates with Sherlock Holmes was good for _something_ , anyway.

“Right,” Harkness says, standing up and jerking Cat-Woman up with him. “We'll be going now.” Rhys and Rex head out the door, guns drawn; presumably to make sure there aren't any more murderous cat-people waiting outside. Gwen goes out as well, smiling mysteriously at John as she leaves. 

“Unless,” Harkness says, turning and theatrically pretending to examine John. John resists the urge to roll his eyes; he'd had enough of theatrics living with Sherlock Holmes, thank you very much. “Unless you want to up your security clearance. It seems we're in need of a doctor.” A slightly sad-looking grin lights up his face and John realizes, quite suddenly, that _this_ is what Gwen and he were arguing over.

“Explain to me why I should be bothering with it,” John says. “In words of three syllables or less. It's late and I'm tired.”

Jack Harkness gives him a once-over and John gets the feeling that this is a man who cannot be fooled. This man would probably have really enjoyed Sherlock.

And this man just undressed the _shit_ out of John with his eyes. The shiver returns to his spine.

“Could be dangerous,” Jack says, not realizing that he's echoing someone before him. “Dangerous and _fun_.” His grin is crooked and sly, and John feels his heart begin to race.

“Sure, why not,” John says.


	2. CHAPTER ONE – “THIS HAD BETTER BE FUCKING IMPORTANT.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M/M makeouts ahead.

John doesn't get a whole lot in the way of sleep these days. The older he gets the more he finds that sleep isn't really necessary in large chunks anymore. He'll never have the stamina Sherlock had, to just go days on end without any of the stuff, but he averages about three or four hours a night, dropping almost directly into REM sleep when he lays down.

He gets _incredibly_ bitchy when someone interrupts what little sleep he does get.

“This had better be fucking important,” he growls into the phone, not even bothering to look at the caller ID. Or remove his face from his pillow, for that matter.

“ _Very_ important,” Jack's voice says over the phone. “Get your pretty ass down here, I've got a crash-landed craft just outside of Cardiff and about ten Ood who need your help. And they're from way, _way_ far in the future, so you'll be dealing directly with their brains.”

John groans, but even as he does it he's getting up and flicking on his bedside lamp. “ _Where_ outside of Cardiff?”

“I'll be back home by the time you're ready,” Jack says. “Just meet me there.”

“Right, see you in a few,” John replies, pushing a button to end the call. He correctly estimates that he's got the time for a very quick shower, which he takes. It wakes him up almost immediately, and he wastes no time drying off and shrugging into a button-down and a pair of jeans.

The last two years have been almost completely insane. He didn't have a chance to even consider getting a place to stay or moving his things down to Cardiff when there had been an almost planet-wide invasion that Torchwood had to save the day from, with the help of Rex and Rhys (neither of whom are actually employed by Torchwood, John later found out). After that, Rex took off for America and Rhys settled down to be a house-husband.

Rhys and John meet up every Saturday – provided nothing is going bump in the night – for a few pints. John likes Rhys. He's a nice bloke, the sort that means to create honest good in the world. And he loves Gwen with all of his heart, something John can respect in a person.

So for now, Torchwood is simply the three of them. They still need a computers expert, at least, and a few more hired hands. Rex hadn't been willing to stay on and Rhys couldn't even use his _iPhone_ half the time, so they were just waiting to stumble across the right people. In the meantime they all pitched in where they could.

Somehow in the middle of it all Jack Harkness managed to break down the last barrier to John's bisexuality. They aren't exclusive, and it's mostly just physical, but it's nice to occasionally have someone to work off tension with. In this job it's actually a _necessity_.

John isn't  happy, but he's content, and he can work with that.

After he very suddenly left London and reappeared in Cardiff, he had the added bonus of being out from under Mycroft's thumb. Apparently his reach doesn't extend to Wales, because he got a _very_ cross phone call from the other man. He had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared off the map, and it made Mycroft nervous.

John grins to himself as he pulls on his jacket and grabs his medical kit. A nervous Mycroft makes John very, _very_ happy. Plus, John now has the same security clearance as the elder Holmes, so he can't order surveillance. Having some privacy is actually rather nice.

Just before he leaves the flat, he swipes his Torchwood ID and his gun off his kitchen counter. It wouldn't do to forget either of those. Last time that had happened he'd almost got Lady Gaga shot, and her subjects had been _deeply_ unhappy with him. The only reason they were able to keep World War III from taking place had been...well, Jack's smile, essentially. John grins again.

What a bizarre, fucked-up life he leads.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

It's been a very, _very_ long day and John wants nothing more than to go home and sleep his three hours of sleep. The Ood ship had fallen out of the time rift and it took John the better part of the day to patch up the survivors, and then they'd had to gas part of the city with Jack's amnesia drugs. It hadn't been pleasant in the slightest and John hopes he'll never have to repeat it.

To his surprise, Jack invites himself back to John's place, which is rare: usually when they plan a hookup it happens at Torchwood, or any of the other random places that they travel to. John's flat isn't _specifically_ off-limits, but Jack has only seen the interior of it maybe a half dozen times over the last two years.

Jack must be feeling depressed about the Ood that they'd lost. There had been a compliment of about forty on the ship, but only fifteen of them were left. The ship is being repaired right now and tomorrow morning – Friday at the _latest_ – they'll be sending them off.

It took a great deal of finagling, and Jack put in a special call to a woman he knew named Martha to get it all taken care of, but the Ood were a treasure, a real rarity in the universe. They hated to not give them a chance at life.

Jack is _really_ depressed, John corrects himself a few minutes later. He doesn't even wait to get into the flat, immediately shoving his hands up John's shirt as they crawl out of John's car. 

“Calm down,” John says, chuckling under his breath. He's silenced by a demanding kiss, and the two of them begin slowly ascending the steps to the door of his flat.

Unlocking the door is difficult, because Jack is _wholeheartedly_ refusing to let up long enough for John to deal with it, so he does everything by touch. By the time they stumble into his sitting room and flick the light on, John's shirt is entirely unbuttoned and his belt undone. Jack is, in fact, attacking his fly with enthusiasm.

Which makes it very, _very_ awkward when he turns and sees Sherlock Holmes sitting on his sofa.


	3. CHAPTER TWO – “WHAT HAPPENED TO 'NOT GAY'?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Jack Harkness is a horny bastard. <3

Jack steadfastly refuses to stay, his good humor switching into place almost immediately.

“There's absolutely no way,” he says, as they stand in John's kitchen. John is getting an ice pack together for Sherlock's eye (which is now quite bruised). “No way I could stay here and intrude on this without putting my grubby little hands _all over him_.” He sighs and stares at Sherlock from over the bar between the two rooms. “You are _so_ _lucky_.”

“It's not like that,” John says. Jack looks delighted.

“Do you think –“

“If you try I'll break your hands,” John says, keeping his voice even and pleasant. Jack laughs.

“So it _is_ like that?”

John shakes his head. “It's...complicated.” He walks Jack to the door and opens it. This process is made difficult because Jack can't seem to keep his eyes off of Sherlock (also, John's juggling an ice pack while he tries to open the door handle, but frankly, he's more perturbed over his lover's attentions to Sherlock). Sherlock notices the attention and raises his eyebrow; he seems to miss John's annoyance entirely. Somehow, John isn't surprised in the slightest.

“Mmm. I mean, I'd seen the old videos and whatnot, but...” Jack sighs again. “All that _leg_.”

“ _Jack_ ,” John says, raising his eyebrow. “I'm _right her_ e. And he can _hear you_.”

“Right, sorry,” Jack says, grinning. He drops a kiss on John's forehead. “Tomorrow, maybe. Let me know, anyway.” He winks at Sherlock. “If it doesn't work out, pretty boy, you can always –“

“ _Jack!_ ”

“Right! I'm going! Leaving now!” Jack says, waving, winking, and closing the door behind him. The man has absolutely _no shame._

Without a word John hands Sherlock the ice pack, and then disappears back into the kitchen to make tea.

Sherlock looks like he's going to say something when John comes back bearing a few mugs and sits down on the chair across from the couch.

“ _No_ ,” John says, shaking his head and sliding Sherlock his mug. “No excuses. I _know_ why you did it; I got my hands on your phone recordings not even six months ago. I know why you jumped, and it's alright. I still reserve the right to be angry that you _faked your death_ and _didn't tell me_.” He glares at him. “ _Three years_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks astounded. “How did you –“ He stops. “Those recordings are _classified_.”

“I'm sure they are,” John agrees. He takes a sip of tea.

“Mycroft didn't say anything about –“

“Well, he wouldn't, because he's not who I went through,” John says. He picks up his smartphone in his free hand and enters a quick request on a very _specific_ application, before returning it to his pocket. “And before you ask, _no_ , I can't tell you. Not just yet, anyway.” 

Sherlock looks deeply annoyed. “I can just –“

“No, you _cannot_ ,” John says. He sighs. “Just trust me on this.”

They're silent for several minutes while they drink their tea. Sherlock still looks annoyed; even after three years John can tell when he's struggling to get his emotions under control.

He goes for chit-chat. Somehow, John isn't surprised.

“Your ...boyfriend,” Sherlock says, attempting nonchalance. “He's quite fit.”

John shoots him an amused look. “ _Not_ my boyfriend, although I guess I should be flattered that you think I could date someone so out of my league.” Sherlock looks completely baffled.

“But you –“

“Jack is my _boss_ ,” John interrupts. “And occasional bedpartner, but it's mostly a matter of convenience.”

Sherlock leans back, steepling his fingers and _deducing_ him. John finds that he doesn't care. He takes another sip of tea and resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“What happened to 'not gay?'” Sherlock asks, mildly.

John laughs outright, although it's not an entirely happy laugh. He's not very happy right now, although of course he's thrilled that Sherlock isn't _actually_ dead.

“You _are_ aware that there's a distinct difference between 'not gay' and 'straight,' I'm sure,” John says, setting his mug down on the coffee table. 

“Ah,” Sherlock's reply is almost an inhale rather than an actual word. They're silent for several minutes while Sherlock contemplates gay theory and John drinks his tea. About halfway through John realizes that he's so British that it almost _hurts,_ and sighs.

“Look, if you want you can kip on the couch,” he says, standing up and taking his now-empty mug to the kitchen. “If you take off, lock the door behind you.” His phone beeps, and he fishes it out of his pocket. “Ah, looks like Jack decided he owes me a favor.”

“Pardon?” Sherlock says. He's followed John into the kitchen.

John holds his phone up. “He's bumped up your security clearance for me.” He lets a sly grin cross his face. “You'll be happy to know that you've equal footing with Mycroft now.” A text comes in and it's from Jack.

_If you screw this up, you owe me naked pictures of him._

John laughs and pockets the phone. Sherlock very much looks like he wants to ask a question.

“Tomorrow, Sherlock,” he says. He puts the mug in the sink and heads toward his bedroom. “If you want answers, you have to wait until tomorrow. I had a very, _very_ long day patching up a bunch of half-dead aliens and I really need a few hours of sleep.”

“Aliens?” Sherlock _would_ catch that bit.

“ _Tomorrow_ , Sherlock,” John repeats.

His exhaustion is the only thing that forces him into sleep; otherwise, he'd be up all night thinking about the man in the other room.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

He shoots up out of bed three and a half hours later, wide awake, and briefly curses his fucked-up sleep habits. He could _use_ another five hours, but there's nothing for it: once he's awake, he's awake until he gets so tired he _has_ to sleep.

A glance at his bedside clock tells him that it's about three in the morning. Sighing, he pulls pyjama pants and a T-shirt on. Living by himself, he's gotten used to sleeping in his underthings or, oftentimes, nothing at all; making allowances for Sherlock Holmes, however, is a habit that's difficult to break even now.

Letting out a jaw-popping yawn, he stumbles into his living room and then the kitchen, where he makes an entire pot of coffee. Sherlock is napping, but it's the sort of napping that John _knows_ won't last long. Sherlock will wake up as soon as John sits down. Possibly even before that. Taking that into account, John makes himself breakfast, and just to be _particularly_ optimistic, he makes something for Sherlock as well.

By the time he's finished, Sherlock is standing at the doorway to the kitchen. He's sleep-rumpled and grumpy-looking, but John hands him a plate of food and a mug anyway. “If you're going to quiz me for hours on end about what I've been doing for the past three years – and _trust_ me, I intend on doing the same to you – I'm forcing you to eat something first.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes but follows John to the kitchen table. They eat in silence. Abruptly, a shrill noise pierces the air, and Sherlock rolls his eyes and digs his phone out of his trouser pockets.

“Mycroft,” he says, voice clipped. The disdain leaves his face and quickly turns to delight. “Yes, yes it was. _So_ sorry, I should have informed you.”

John isn't an idiot: He figures Mycroft has just been told that his little brother shares his security clearance and thus, cannot be monitored anymore. John grins.

Sherlock carries on along those lines for several minutes, clearly rubbing this fact into his brother's face, before hanging up.

“Let's consider that three years worth of Christmas and birthday gifts combined, then?” John says, lightly. Sherlock surprises him by actually laughing, and then – surprise _again_ – actually eating his breakfast.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

John makes Sherlock go first. It actually takes several hours, and the sun is coming up by the time he finishes with the information that Moriarty's network is mostly dismantled (hence the return to life). John interrupts their discussion to have a shower and get ready to go into work.

“I'd offer you a clothing change but you'd look horrible,” John says, frankly. 

“I don't know about all that,” Sherlock says, gesturing to the solid-color button-up and denims that John is wearing. “Your fashion sense seems to have improved since I left, at least.”

“ _Not_ what I meant,” John says, rolling his eyes. “It can't have escaped your notice, but you actually _are_ still six inches taller than I am.” Mumbling dark curses about half-giraffe madmen, John gets his work things together.

“Wait,” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes. “You haven't told me what _you're_ doing.”

“Of course not,” John says, patiently. “It's hard to explain, so I'm going to _show_ you.”

In a rare show of humor, Sherlock quirks his lips up. “Please tell me it isn't 'take your child to work' day.”

John laughs, and while there's still anger there, simmering, he realizes that he _missed_ this; the byplay between the two of them was always unique and familiar. Sherlock has pissed him off beyond belief, but he's still John's best mate.

“Close, but no cigar,” he says, shouldering his kit. Once again, he swipes the gun and ID from the kitchen counter. “It's 'take your emotionally-stunted best friend slash man-child to work' day.”

Sherlock grins manically, and if there's a slight loosening of expression when John says “best friend,” John chooses to ignore it.

“Do you know,” Sherlock says, as they walk to John's car, “That Mycroft has been trying to keep tabs on you for _two years_? The only reason I even knew where you lived was because you have your real address on your drivers' license.”

“I figured he would _try_ ,” John says as he unlocks his car door. It's a nice little thing, a silver sedan with plenty of trunk space: who knew when he'd need to haul something particularly egregious home? He likes it.

Sherlock looks _very_ pleased with himself, for reasons that John doesn't particularly want to contemplate.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Gwen calls him halfway to work, his earpiece beeping and nearly scaring him half to death.

“Jack says you're bringing in new blood,” she says. She sounds thrilled: while everyone knows about John and his travels with Sherlock, via his blog, very few people actually know about his past. He rarely indulges them in their curiosity.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing as he turns a corner. Perhaps a bit recklessly; Sherlock's fingers grip at the center console in a manner that indicates he may be quite alarmed. “Yeah, I am. Old friend, so to speak.”

“Yeah, I've heard a bit,” Gwen says. She's laughing now too. “Who _is_ he? Jack went on for about thirty minutes this morning about how _fit_ he is. If you're not careful he'll be composing sonnets.”

“Oh good _lord_ ,” John says, an amusedly exasperated tone creeping into his voice. He lets his eyes dart over to Sherlock. “He _is_ pretty good looking, no lie, but _really_? _Sonnets_? You'd think he'd know when to let it drop.” He can practically _hear_ Sherlock rolling his eyes at him.

Gwen laughs more. “I'm enjoying your implication that Jack Harkness has something resembling self-control.”

“Valid point. Right, we're almost there and you'll get to meet him yourself,” John says. Torchwood actually has something resembling a parking garage: all very secretive, of course, and naturally it's below-ground and hidden, but where else would they keep the SUV? He steers his car toward it.

“Yeah, I can see you on camera now. If you'd ditch the window tinting I could even see your _friend_ ,” Gwen says. She chuckles. “I'll see you in a few minutes.”

The line goes dead. John pulls up to the innocuous-looking spot in between a skip and a low garden wall before he pushes a button on his dashboard.

They sink into the ground, Sherlock making a noise that sounds begrudgingly impressed. Several lines of thought seem to intersect and he turns toward John, his expression suspicious.

John rolls his eyes: Sherlock probably hasn't even come _close_ to ascertaining the truth about Torchwood. He's actually _enjoying_ this – it's not often he gets to have the upper hand on Sherlock Holmes.

The lift stops and he drives off it, finding a spot next to the SUV to park. They get out: Sherlock still wearing his coat, suit and scarf like nothing happened, and John looking diminutive and entirely nonthreatening (John actually _likes_ his appearance. He considers it urban camouflage. No one expects the good doctor to shoot them in the head). It's like St. Bart's never happened.

Despite the fact that Sherlock has absolutely _no idea_ what's going on, he still manages to stalk around like he's in charge. John laughs as he does so, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“You can try to act cool if you'd like,” John says, smirking. “But trust me, it won't impress Gwen. You've _met_ Jack. We're all used to the jacket by now.”

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Gwen comes up short as Sherlock walks in behind John.

“You _didn't_ ,” she says, looking at John in the face. He reaches the conclusion she did a second later.

“Oh, lord, _no_ ,” John replies. Stupid. _Stupid_ not to think that her first thought would be the goddamned gauntlet. “No, perfectly average case of faking his death. No resurrection whatsoever.”

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Gwen says, her hand going to her chest. She lets out a shaky breath and John remembers that she very nearly _died_ because of one of those things. 

Sherlock looks very much like he wants to say something, but he keeps his mouth shut. John wonders, briefly, if something managed to teach him tact over the last three years, but he dismisses it. Sherlock, no doubt, will return to being his infuriating self in due time.

“Gwen Cooper, Sherlock Holmes,” John says, gesturing between the two of them. “Returned from the dead, as it were.”

They actually shake hands. “Pleasure,” Sherlock says, his voice clipped.

Gwen looks at him and then back at John.

“You are in for _so_ much trouble,” she says. “So. Much. Trouble.”

“You have _no_ idea,” John replies, sighing. He turns to Sherlock. “Welcome to Torchwood.”

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

John has just sat down at his desk with Sherlock and started to explain (in a sort of vague, halfhearted way) what Torchwood is all about, when a call comes in to Gwen.

“Huh,” she says. “US number.”

“You don't think –“ John begins.

“I _do_ ,” Gwen replies. Her face is solemn as she answers the call.

Rex Matheson's face blooms across the screen. “Gwen,” he says, grinning. “You get prettier every time I see you.”

Gwen smirks. “Why, _thank_ you, Rex. What's up?”

“I've found something in New York that I think you guys need to check out,” he says. John and Sherlock step behind Gwen to look. “Oh, hey, John,” Rex says. He frowns at Sherlock. “Who's this?”

“Friend of mine,” John says, brushing the question off. “What do we need to see?”

“Was _anyone_ going to come get me?” Jack calls from the back, as he walks towards Gwen's desk. He gives Sherlock an appreciative glance before focusing on the computer screen.

“Right,” Rex says. His grin has, if anything, widened: Rex is well-aware of Jack's sexual proclivities. His face becomes more serious as he continues. “Anyway, look at this.”

He takes his phone camera and pans it out to what looks like a half-buried spaceship.

“I can't be sure because I'm just going off of your descriptions,” Rex's voice says. “But I think –“

“Just _great_ ,” Jack says, explosively interrupting Rex's comment. He looks equal parts annoyed and terrified. “Right, where is this?”

“New York,” Rex replies. “Just outside of Yorktown Heights. Lots of tree coverage, but I can only hold it closed for so long, so you'd best get your pretty asses over here, _now_.”

Jack nods. He looks down at Gwen. “Are you set up to be able to go on an extended trip?”

Gwen's lips press together. “I promised Rhys –“

“Him too,” Jack says, nodding again. “We'll need him, I think.  He _has_ been practicing with the gun, _right?”_

Gwen nods a response. “Yeah, John takes him to the range every Saturday before they go to the pub. We can leave Anwen with my mum, but Rhys' passport is expired –“

“ _Shit_ ,” Jack swears. “If I hadn't alienated –“

“Excuse me,” Sherlock interjects, pulling his phone out. Everyone swivels to look at him. “I can get your husband's passport renewed if you give me his name.”

Everyone is silent for a second. Gwen opens her mouth, presumably to ask how Sherlock knew who Rhys was. Jack opens _his_ mouth, presumably to ask how the hell Sherlock plans on getting Rhys' passport renewed within the hour.

John interrupts both of them. “He's _Mycroft's little brother_ , Jack,” he says, grinning. He turns to Gwen. “And he's a sodding _genius_. You two _really_ shouldn't be so surprised; you've both read my blog.”

“Ah, so this must be Sherlock Holmes,” Rex's voice says from the computer. Everyone turns toward him again. “We just got word about an hour ago that he was alive. Nice to meet you; I'm Rex Matheson with the CIA. Anyway, are you guys going to be able to come out?”

“Yeah, we'll be there in about...twelve hours,” Jack says, looking down at the thing strapped to his wrist. John has never been able to really get a straight answer from him what it is; he even keeps it on during _sex_.

They end the call with Rex and begin throwing items together that they might need. Gwen calls Rhys; the both of them, Jack and John all keep packed bags at Torchwood in case of incidents like this, but they've never had to use them. While she's on the phone, Gwen and Jack have another eye-conversation, very similar to the one they had two years ago, only _this_ time they're looking at _Sherlock_.

Jack stops in front of the detective. “How are you with a gun?” he asks. Sherlock looks confused; he's just hung up the phone with Mycroft, so he's not really thinking too far in advance. No one, John knows, has the ability to derail Sherlock's line of thought like his big brother.

“Bloody awful with one, last time I checked,” John mutters under his breath while he restocks his medical kit.

Sherlock glares at him and then lets his gaze fall back to Jack. “Over the last three years,” he says, “I've had reason to improve my marksmanship.”

“Good, you're coming with us,” Jack says. He eyes Sherlock. “Not even a whole inch taller than me but all that _leg_.” Jack bites his lip, practically whimpering, before he continues. “I haven't got any clothes for you, sorry.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, ignoring Jack's lust with the ease of one used to such a maneuver. “I'm sure I'll be fine,” he says. John chuckles; Jack and Sherlock may have similar coats, but he cannot _imagine_ Sherlock wearing Jack's clothing.

His stomach clenches and he revises his opinion: he absolutely _can_ imagine it, and may need to have a wank to it later on tonight. 

“How are you with computers?” Gwen asks Sherlock. Jack walks away; John notices he's beginning the process of transferring the Ood to their spaceship so they can leave. _Good_. Gwen has pulled some complicated electronic equipment out of storage and is checking it over in front of Sherlock.

“Excellent,” Sherlock says. He raises his eyebrow at the look she gives him. “Perhaps you might recall that incident in Switzerland a few months ago.”

“That was _you?_ ” John says, pausing in his perusal of his medical equipment. He swears. “We were working overtime for _weeks_ because of that.”

“My apologies,” Sherlock says. He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest.

“Whatever,” Gwen says, waving this off. She hands Sherlock an innocuous-looking case. “The standard kit. As of right now, consider yourself our computers expert.”

“Welcome to the team,” Jack says, clapping a hand to Sherlock's shoulder as he walks by. John wonders if Jack used that as an excuse to put his hands on Sherlock, and decides he doesn't care. He couldn't blame the man anyway; blacked eye and assorted new scars aside, Sherlock Holmes is still a ridiculously attractive man.

Sherlock eyes John, his eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, they're always like that,” John says, grinning.


	4. CHAPTER THREE – “SO YOU KEPT THE MOVIE, THEN?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a small scene of gratuitous Captain Jack Harkness/Captain John Watson in this chapter. I'd like to take this time to call it "O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN."

Jack drives them to the airport in the SUV. John and Sherlock sit in the back, where they're joined by Rhys when they pick him up. John allows himself to be squished into the middle, and he makes introductions.

Sherlock immediately begins looking through the case that Gwen gave him. Rhys, as a “consultant,” is handed an almost identical one. It's pretty simple, honestly: the communications earpieces, a gun and ammo, a stash of amnesia pills, some assorted incendiary devices, and a few other odds and ends that Torchwood employees may need in their regular line of work. John's is a bit more specialized (and considerably larger) as it contains medical equipment, but for the most part it's identical.

“Keep it all in there,” John cautions him. “It's the only way to get it all past security.” Sherlock raises his eyebrow and he explains. “The case. It'll flummox the baggage scanners.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says. His mind is apparently running a mile a minute as he examines the case. A satisfied look crosses his face.

“Oh, right,” Gwen says from up front. She hauls another case out from between her legs. “Almost forgot. I just finished them a few days ago.”

In her hands rest five brand-new tablet computers. John grins.

“Finally!” he crows, snatching one out of her hand. Sherlock takes his at a more sedate pace; Rhys accepts his and puts it in his case, ignoring curiosity for the time being. Over the last two years he's been involved with several of Torchwood's more... _interesting_ cases, and it's jaded him somewhat. That, and he still isn't entirely comfortable with technology as a whole. It's the main reason he hasn't been brought into Torchwood on a permanent basis.

The tablet computers are special, totally customized and with a permanent (and secure) Internet connection. Gwen has been working on modifying them for the last six months with some assorted alien technology – she's stated that she thinks they'll even work in outer space.

The things John had to _do_ to convince Jack to let out some of his secrets for these things...

He blushes lightly as he examines his tablet. Sherlock raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

There's a man in a suit waiting for them at the airport. He taps Sherlock on the shoulder and gestures for them to follow him.

Sherlock sighs mightily and does so. Interested, the rest of the party follows. They're led to a door off to the side of the main concourse; the man knocks on the door and listens.

Apparently, he hears something that pleases him, for he smiles and opens the door, gesturing for everyone to enter. He does _not_ enter with them, instead closing the door behind him and leaving them in the room with their kidnapper.

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft is waiting, wearing an irritated look as well as his usual three-piece. The moment he sees Jack his face clears and he sighs.

“I should have _known_ ,” he says, sounding a bit rueful. “Torchwood, naturally.”

“I'm surprised that you didn't put that together,” John says, completely calm; Mycroft may have a secret service, but John knows about twenty different ways he can kill the elder Holmes if need be. “Considering I'd up and moved to _Cardiff_ , of all places.”

“Hm, yes,” Mycroft said, frowning. “I had rather a lot on my plate, you understand.”

“Sure,” John replies, affably. He holds his hand out and Mycroft gives him two passports: one for Sherlock, one for Rhys. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, raising his eyebrow as he accepts his passport from John. His eyes don't leave his brother's face.

Mycroft lets out another exaggerated sigh and gestures to the table, where a bag is waiting. Apparently, it's for Sherlock, as he picks it up; he looks almost physically _pained_ as he thanks his brother. Mycroft is very careful to quickly wipe away the stunned look on his face, instead transferring his gaze toward John again. “I hadn't pinned you for a recruiting officer,” he says.

“I'm sure you didn't,” John replies, still amiable and deceptively friendly. “Then again, you didn't think I'd ever join Torchwood, either, so _clearly_ you've been underestimating me.” 

“Clearly,” Mycroft replies. He looks like he has a toothache. “Gentlemen. My lady,” he says, nodding to everyone. “You'll find that your flight will be leaving slightly ahead of schedule today.”

Jack looks delighted. 

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Plane flights – even those on privately-chartered jets obtained by the British Government – are pretty much _always_ boring, and after the last two years John has become quite good at being patient on them. Luckily the tablet occupies Sherlock's time for the majority of the flight; the fact that they are on a plane and Sherlock has access to a firearm leaves John _seriously_ contemplating conversion to a major religion.

Finally, Sherlock finishes playing with his new toy and begins an annoying series of sighs and fidgeting motions that makes John actively consider strangling him. “Stop it,” he snaps at Sherlock. “You're 35 years old, for God's sake. _Act it_.” 

Sherlock actually has the gall to _pout_ at him. 

“Screw this,” John says, standing up and heading to the toilet. It's a nice, spacious room and he's fairly certain he can while away the remaining hour or two on the plane in there.

He closes the door behind him and washes his face, because it seems like the thing to do. It's been less than twenty four hours since he found out Sherlock is alive, and he _already_ wants to kill him. Not really a good indication for the future, that.

The door opens and closes behind him and he can hear the sound of the lock being flipped. John turns to chastise whoever it is – he has an inkling that it might be Sherlock – when he's silenced quickly by Jack's mouth.

He stops struggling almost immediately because he knows _exactly_ what's about to happen. His lips form a smile. Pulling back, Jack grins at him too.

“For old time's sake,” he says, his hands busy at John's fly. John lets out an amused huff of breath, which catches when Jack gets to his knees in front of him.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” John says, closing his eyes. Jack Harkness has one of the universe's most talented tongues and it is currently wrapped around _his_ cock, which is rapidly becoming erect.

Jack pulls him deep into his throat before pulling him out almost entirely and licking around his head. John shudders and lets out a shaky breath: foreplay hasn't ever been their strong point, and while this isn't precisely _new_ , it _is_ something he's not used to.

Jack pulls him back in and lets the head of his cock rest against his soft palate, tracing a slow, leisurely figure 8 against John's frenulum with his tongue. Slowly, he adds suction: it's a mix that he knows, from experience, that is guaranteed to make John fall apart quickly.

It works. Soon John is trembling with the beginnings of what looks to be an amazing orgasm when Jack stops. John lets out an almost pained gasp, but cuts it off when he sees Jack unbuckling his own belt.

“Oh, God, _yes_ ,” he mumbles. Propping his hands behind him, he pulls himself up, balancing his weight on his tailbone and the countertop.

Jack, naturally, has lube: John would be surprised to find him without at _least_ three things that can be used for sex even if they got dumped at the south goddamned _pole_. It's who he is – Jack Harkness is sex on two feet. It's nearly all he thinks about, and it's something he's dedicated the entirety of his very, _very_ long life to learning and perfecting. Jack is pressed up against him now, sucking on an earlobe as he presses two lube-slicked fingers into John.

John lets out a hiss, his head tilting back instinctively, giving Jack access to his throat. Jack takes this as an invitation and begins nibbling at the sensitive skin there, leaving a series of tiny bite marks. John lets his eyes close, shutting off his sense of sight so that he can pay attention to the way this _feels_.

A few minutes later Jack moves, pulling his fingers out of John and unbuttoning his fly, wrapping his hand around his own cock and covering it with a fine layer of lubricant and pre-come. He positions himself against John's arsehole and _pushes_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John moans, softly, letting out another wobbly breath and trying hard not to let himself fall from the countertop. As if he read his mind – and considering everything else he's capable of, John wouldn't be surprised if Jack actually _could_ read minds – Jack reaches and takes some of John's weight off of his hands as he begins to move. 

John tilts backward, letting his head rest against the mirror: it's a position that forces Jack to hit his prostate with almost every thrust, and John bites his lip, reaching one hand down to grasp himself. He times his movements with Jack's thrusts, and soon he's _right there_.

Jack's breath quickens, and John can tell he's close too – this isn't going to be one of their hours-long fuck sessions. This is quick and dirty and so _exactly_ what he needs. He lets out another groan.

Despite the fact that his senses are so full of Jack Jack Jack _Jack bloody Harkness_ , right before he comes he gets a flash of Sherlock, wrapped in a sheet in the middle of Buckingham Palace. And then he's trembling, moaning, spurts of semen hitting his stomach, bare now because Jack unbuttoned his shirt to nibble at his chest.

_Well, I'm fucked_ , John thinks to himself. Above him, Jack lets out a strangled-sounding gasp that is _almost_ as hot as the man himself, coming hard and fast.

They stay there for a few minutes, exchanging languorous kisses as they let their heart rates fall back to normal. Then they clean themselves up quickly, wiping up the mess they made with damp paper towels.

Before they leave Jack stops him, gently touching John's upper arm. “This is it, huh?” he says. It's not sad, just a statement of fact, although it does have a tinge of regret to it.

John considers, and then nods. “It'll probably have to be,” he says. “Not really fair to either of us, I should think.”

Jack smirks. “Well, it was fun while it lasted,” he says, whimsically, as he unlatches the door and strides out. Absolutely no shame, whatsoever.

John glances in the mirror and sighs. There's absolutely no way he's going to look anything other than freshly-fucked when he sits down next to Sherlock, but he decides to make an attempt. After buttoning his shirt back up, tucking it in, and pushing his hair back into something resembling order, he lets out a sigh and exits the room.

“Have fun?” Sherlock says archly, not even bothering to look at John. He has, in fact, stolen John's chair and is staring out the plane's window.

“Mmm,” John replies, trying not to sound too terribly pleased with himself. He pulls a book out of his bag as he sinks into Sherlock's chair. They have almost two hours left of this flight; he may as well get some reading in.

Sherlock actually _lets_ him read, for real, for ten solid minutes. On the other side of the aisle, Gwen and Rhys are napping against each other, and Jack is heavily involved in something on his tablet behind the couple. Finally, curiosity gets the better of Sherlock and he asks.

“Are you _sure_ you two aren't seeing each other?” Sherlock says in a bored tone, still staring out the plane window. “It seems to me –“

“Actually,” John says, rolling his eyes and closing the book with an irritated _snap_. “That was goodbye sex, so even if we _were_ seeing each other, we aren't _now_. It would be lovely, Sherlock, just absolutely _lovely_ , if you could stay out of my love life. Every time you get involved things get ruined. Remember _Sarah?_ ”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock says, narrowing his eyes and raising his fingertips to touch the window. He still isn't looking at John. “Didn't know goodbye sex was a thing. Good to know.”

John lets out a frustrated sigh. “Of course. Of _course_ that's the one thing you'd pick up from this conversation.” He opens his book and resolutely trains his eyes upon the text there rather than Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Another ten minutes goes by before Sherlock talks to him again. John resists the urge to snap his neck.

“Why did you break it off, then?” Sherlock asks.

“I dunno, we just _did_. Can we _not_ talk about this?” John says. He's still staring at his book rather than Sherlock; the same sentence actually, as he can't seem to focus on the actual words he's supposed to be reading.

Sherlock lets out a sigh, like _he's_ the one being improperly interrogated about relationships, and turns back to the window.

Ten more minutes.

“John –“

“For the love of _Christ_ , Sherlock, if you ask me _one more_ question about sex with Jack, I'm going to force you to watch an _instructional video_ of it,” John shouts, slamming his book down on the arm rest in between them. “Either that or shoot you the _moment_ we land in New York.”

Sherlock blinks; his eyes dart away from John. “I'm just curious,” he says, mutinously. “I've observed you in heterosexual relationships, but I need more information about –“

“No,” John says.

“But –“

“I. Said. No.” John closes his eyes and inhales, then exhales slowly. He opens his eyes. “No.”

“You don't seem too heartbroken,” Sherlock said, sighing and looking back out the window. 

John clenches his left hand and resists the urge to shove it into Sherlock's face. He hears a giggling noise and looks over: Gwen, Rhys and Jack are all staring at them with wide grins on their faces.

“Great, just great,” John mutters, burying his face in his hands. He can't see it, but he _knows_ , knows without a _doubt_ , that Sherlock is smirking at him.

“If you'd just answered my quest –“

“Shut _up_ , Sherlock!”

There's a moment of silence and then Jack's voice calls across the cabin: “So you kept the movie, then?”

John flushes bright red as Jack, Gwen, Rhys and Sherlock all burst into laughter.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Rex meets them at the Teterboro private airport with a grim look and a Suburban to drive them to the site. John desperately wants to take a nap, as dealing with Sherlock Holmes for ten solid hours for the first time in three years has unexpectedly _exhausted_ him, but this is more important.

Rex drives for an hour before they cross an immense bridge with a silly name and pay a ridiculous toll. “What does that even _mean_?” Jack is saying from up front. “ _Tappan Zee Bridge_. It sounds like a children's game.”

“Fuck if I know,” Rex says, laughing. John smiles; this almost reminds him of the invasion, which was harrowing and absolutely _wonderful_. The old gang is back together again. Well, from his perspective, anyway; Gwen has told him all about Owen, Toshiko, and Ianto. 

Next to him, Sherlock fidgets.

“Be patient, Sherlock,” John says, rolling his eyes. He knows he's been sharp with Sherlock today: he's still annoyed with him for making him grieve, and it's entirely possible that he's taking out some of the unresolved sexual tension between the two of them on the younger man. But that doesn't mean that Sherlock gets to act like a two-year-old.

“Riding as a passenger is _boring_ ,” Sherlock says, his baritone spitting out “boring” as if it were some sort of horribly naughty curse word.

“Can't you just take in the sights?”

“ _Really_ , John, what is there to see here?” He focuses out the window. “Tree. _Look_ , a tree. Oh my, another bloody _tree_. If we turn back around we might be able to catch that squirrel that we just barely missed turning into roadkill. And yet _another_ tree.”

John sighs and turns to Jack, who is watching the two of them over his shoulder with an amused glint in his eyes. “I've changed my mind,” John says. “Let's kill him. For _real_ , this time.”

Rhys laughs and cuffs John on the shoulder. “Too late for that, mate. At least wait until we're somewhere we can hide the body.”

“There are _plenty_ of places to hide the body,” Sherlock says. “Look, _another tree_. Behind there would be good.”

“Are you _encouraging_ us to put you out of our misery?” Gwen says, not taking her eyes off of her tablet to say it.

Sherlock turns toward Gwen, after a pause. “If you _must_ , make it interesting,” he says. The humor has returned to his voice now as he's realized the conversation is actually somewhat hilarious. “I detest a boring death.”

“That's a good idea for a road trip game,” John muses. “Interesting Ways to Kill Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock sighs and turns to look back out the window. “Is this like license plate bingo? If so, I've already got the 'jumping off a building' spot.'”

Everyone is quiet for a second and then John bursts out laughing. He'd always known he had a fucked-up sense of humor but the fact that Sherlock can make jokes about it, and he can _laugh_ about it, means that they're well on their way to dealing with it. And everyone else has taken that as permission as well: Gwen and Rhys are giggling hysterically at each other from the far back of the Suburban, and Jack has dissolved into almost scary-sounding laughter, slumping over and pressing his face into the front window. Rex is admirably trying to restrain himself, John can tell, but soon he's joined them in their mirth.

Sherlock turns to John and quirks his lips; it's not full-on laughter, but John'll take it.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

None of them are laughing thirty minutes later, when Rex leads them into a clearing just outside of Yorktown Heights. Driving through the town to get to the clearing, John felt it looked quite posh and ritzy, but Sherlock boredly informed him that a lot of the residents were merely putting on airs.

“Half of them look to be in foreclosure,” Sherlock had said, flicking his fingertips. John didn't even bother asking how he could tell.

“Right,” Rex says. It's still somewhat light out, because of the time difference, but the sun is beginning to slip down over the horizon. He hasn't pulled out a torch or anything, and John quickly understands why as they enter the space.

The CIA has set up floodlights around the perimeter of the area. Fully half of the ship has been exposed now, and John thinks it looks absolutely _ridiculous_.

“Looks like a bloody flying saucer,” he says. “Like people think abduct people.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees. “That's where they got the idea.” He's deadly serious now, and he looks...terrified, actually.

“You've seen this before?” Gwen asks.

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Jack says. “I was fighting them when I contracted my – ah – _condition_.” 

John stopped walking, pondering the implications. He's not near as clever as Sherlock, of course, but he _did_ go through medical school. He's not an idiot. Jack had by no means revealed the entirety of his history to John over the two years of their acquaintance, but John had picked up a fair bit of it. And John knew all about the Doctor, and the fact that Jack had managed to become immortal while fighting at his side, fighting the –

“Daleks,” he says, flatly. “This is a Dalek ship.”

Jack turns back to him, his face grave.

“Daleks,” he confirms. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Gwen says, squatting down on the ground, hand to her stomach. She looks vaguely ill. “Tell me they're not back,” she says, looking up to Jack.

“I don't know,” Jack says. He looks like he very fervently wishes he could assure her otherwise. He stares at the ship with consternation.

“Right,” Sherlock says, quietly, behind John. “Is anyone going to fill me in on what the Daleks are?”


	5. CHAPTER FOUR – “TERRIFYING ROBOT! HEADING OUR WAY!”

They spend several hours inside the pit around the ship, attempting to gain access. Jack tries multiple interesting-looking instruments against it, to no avail – a millimeters-thick energy shielding seems to be preventing anything from touching the metal skin of the craft.

“Can Daleks even _live_ that long?” John says, later, as they're eating fast food that one of Rex's men brought them. 

“ _That_ long?” Gwen asks. “How long is _that_ long?”

“Right,” John says. “I forget that you guys didn't live with a hyper-observant sociopath for two years.” At this, Sherlock actually _smiles_. This throws John off so that he can't continue for several seconds. He inhales.

“Okay. The ship was buried for a _long_ time, probably several hundred years at least. It goes down deep, and the roots of the trees have grown _around_ it, not been cut by it.” He grimaces at the hamburger sitting in front of him and takes a tentative bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Plus, if anything had crash-landed here in living memory it'd be recorded somehow. Are there any history reports of something landing here?”

“No,” Rex says, shaking his head. “Which you Brits will be happy to know means that it's been here at least 400 or so years, since that's when this area was colonized.”

“Huh, that's right,” Gwen says, looking surprised. 

Sherlock is silent. He isn't eating, electing instead to drink copious amounts of coffee. His observations are essentially the same as John's: the ship was of such an unfamiliar world that he could deduce almost nothing about it. It left him unsettled, the not-knowing. 

“Anyway, to answer the original question,” Jack says, shoving a very limp-looking chip covered in ketchup into his mouth and grimacing. “I have no _idea_ if Daleks can live that long. The only person who might know...well, isn't here.”

“The Doctor,” John says, raising his eyebrow. Jack nods, and John continues. “But if there _are_ Daleks here, isn't it possible he might show up?”

Jack sighs. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it's not an avenue we can rely on at this point.” He looks deeply unhappy with this pronouncement, and John realizes that Jack is in love with his Doctor. It stuns him for several seconds: For how long had they been using each other as a partner-surrogate? The entire time? Just the beginning? John frowns as he begins to understand that John himself used Jack as a Sherlock-replacement for almost the entire two years of their association.

It hurts to think about and he shakes his head, trying to draw his focus back to the conversation.

Sherlock looks very confused, and John realizes he's going to need to have a discussion with his friend about all of this. Although he took time travel and alien life in stride, this _could_ throw him for a loop – John suspects that Jack didn't tell him _everything_ , but he'd got the general gist of what the Doctor is and isn't.

When they finish their dinner, John shoots Jack a look. At his nod, John taps Sherlock on the shoulder and gestures for him to follow him to the edge of the site.

“There's a lot of stuff you'll need to be aware of to function within this scenario,” John begins. 

“I expect that's a discussion we don't have the time for,” Sherlock says, brushing imaginary lint off the front of his jacket. He's never enjoyed being the ignorant party and even less does he like being educated about it.

“We have to _make_ time,” John says. “Look, Sherlock, you're not stupid. You've spent the last three years risking your life, right? Well, this is even _more_ dangerous. If you don't have all of the information, you could get killed, or get someone else on the team killed.” John frowns. “Don't make me watch you die again, okay? It wasn't fair the first time and if it happens a second time, I swear to _Christ_ I'll resurrect you just to kill you again.”

Sherlock is silent for several seconds before nodding. “Alright,” he says, sitting down on a small boulder. John finds another convenient rock to prop himself against and wonders where to start.

He doesn't get much of a chance, though – before he can begin, there's a noise behind them, in the woods.

John frowns and looks at Sherlock, silently mouthing, “What was that?”

Sherlock shrugs, baffled. The two of them silently draw their guns. The noise sounds again, and John manages to communicate to Sherlock that he wants him to go in the opposite direction that John is going to go in.

“Circle around,” he mouths. “Try not to get caught.”

Sherlock nods and the two silently slink off. John finds himself impressed with Sherlock's ability to keep quiet and is contemplating this when he runs into something solid and metal.

“Jesus buggering _Christ!_ ” he exclaims, pushing himself off of the robot – for that's what it is, a bloody _robot_ – with due haste. Jerkily, it reaches out for him and takes a step.

“Fuck _this_ ,” he says, taking aim with the gun. He rests his finger on the trigger, holds his breath, lets it out, and fires.

No such luck. The bullet ricochets off of the metal casing and John spares a second to hope that Sherlock wasn't wherever it went. Then he runs back toward the clearing. He can hear the robot chasing him, and he hopes to God that Sherlock can hear this and is making his way back to the clearing as well.

“INCOMING,” he yells as he passes the last tree. “ _TERRIFYING ROBOT! HEADING OUR WAY!_ ”

Jack, Rhys, and Gwen's heads jerk up. John imagines that for a brief second he must look hilarious, until they catch sight of the thing behind him. Jack visibly loses color.

“Cyberman,” he says. “We need an energy weapon, pronto.”

“I'm on it,” Gwen says, bolting back to the Suburban.

“John, can you distract it?” Jack calls out. He's fiddling with the thing on his wrist.

“ _How_ am I supposed to do that?” John asks. He sounds annoyed and angry even to himself. 

“I don't _know_!” Jack says in the most sarcastic voice John has ever heard. John briefly contemplates hitting him as he throws himself to the left, leading the robot somewhat in Jack's direction. “Run in a bloody _circle?_ ”

“You need to know that _I hate you,_ ” John advises him. He ducks to the right, herding the Cyberman back away from the rest of the encampment and toward the woods again.

“ _Don't_ let it touch you,” Jack says, ignoring John's comment. “They can shock you.” He finishes fiddling with his wrist-thing. “Gwen, _any time now_.”

“It's not _here_ ,” Gwen wails.

John realizes at this point that the Cyberman has stopped following him and turns. Four more Cybermen have appeared and are zeroing in on the crashed Dalek ship.

“This isn't good,” John muses, loudly. “In fact, this looks pretty damn horrible right now.” Off to the side he can hear Jack, Gwen and Rhys shouting loudly as they attempt to shoot the Cybermen with bullets and fail.

Sherlock trots up next to him out of fucking _nowhere_ and holds out something. It's the stun-gun that Gwen was looking for. He looks apologetic. John reminds himself to take him to task for the theft later.

“Right,” John says, palming it. He takes aim at the Cyberman that had so recently been chasing him and pulls the trigger.

There's a bright flash of light and suddenly the Cyberman doesn't have a head. It falls to the ground with a loud clatter. This brings about an almost _immediate_ raise in John's mood.

“This thing is _awesome!_ ” he exclaims, sighting and taking out another Cyberman. They're closing in on the wreck of a ship. John has an idea that perhaps they don't want them to actually _get_ to the ship.

He circles around, hitting another one in the arm. He fires again and it's down for the count. As he passes Jack he says, “You've been holding out on me,” nodding to the gun.

“I always save the best for last,” Jack says, smirking and holding his hand out. John slaps the gun into Jack's hand and Jack begins to mop up.

Too late, though – he gets one shot off, taking out a single Cyberman, before the last one reaches the side of the Dalek ship. It places it's hand against the energy shielding and presses a button on the side of it's arm, and then the whole thing disappears.

“Shit,” John says into the night.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

John is _exhausted_. His day started roughly twenty hours earlier; after yesterday's disaster with the Ood and then the emotional roller coaster of discovering that Sherlock was alive, and today's long-drawn-out flight to New York (and subsequently breaking it off with Jack after really, really hot sex)...well, he was already set to take a nap when he arrived at the clearing.

It's worse now; he doesn't have Sherlock's ability to neglect his body for days on end, and Jack _never_ seems to need actual sleep. More than anything, John needs a solid five hours of sleep to restore his reserves.

This is not going to happen. He's the only qualified surgeon on-site, and he's Torchwood-trained. He has several autopsies to perform, at Jack's insistence – these Cybermen are _somehow_ part-human.

This becomes very clear very quickly. In his two years with Torchwood, John has autopsied loads of different types of aliens, from the Ood yesterday to a gigantic space whale in a memorable event a year ago. He hadn't thought to keep track of it, but he'd seen the internal anatomy of at least fifty extra-terrestrial beings. 

The Cybermen had clearly human brains. John was so tired that he'd missed the bit of machinery that looked to be a chip of some sort; that the thing fit into a microUSB slot for reading almost made him doubt reality. It was fortunate, however, as that's what made Sherlock see it for what it was. 

“They're humans from another reality,” Jack says. “They still have roughly our level of technology at any given time. MicroUSB stays the standard for almost fifty years.”

“What happened to not telling me about the future?” John asks, rolling his eyes as he carefully severs the connections between the brain and microchip.

“I _dare_ you to guess when it'll fall out of use,” Jack says, grinning as he takes the chip. “I'll take a look at this while you sleep.”

“Do you need help?” Sherlock asks, politely. He _is_ ostensibly the computers expert, after all. 

Jack studies him for several seconds before shaking his head. “In a few hours, maybe, but it'll take a while for me to convert this into something any of you lot could understand. It won't be in any computer language you know.” He looks back to where John is. “Maybe you should have that conversation these guys interrupted, huh? You'll probably need it once we get to analyzing this data.”

Sherlock turns almost immediately, following John. The CIA had set up several FEMA-style trailers for operations and housing; the two men leave the one they performed the autopsies in and head to the one they were bunking in for the night.

They enter and change into their respective pyjamas (the bag Mycroft gave to Sherlock apparently contains clothing, because that's what Sherlock pulls out of it), carefully turning away from each other as they do so, before turning and facing each other again.

This is _not_ a discussion that John wants to have on this little sleep. His brain isn't functioning at full capacity and he feels jittery from leftover adrenaline. 

There is little in the trailer except for a portable toilet and two twin beds, but someone has had the forethought to include a few jugs of water in the mini-fridge and an electric teakettle. Digging around, John even manages to find some plastic mugs and horrible American-branded tea. Sherlock disappears while John prepares the tea and reappears several minutes later with coffee creamer and sugar.

The tea is _terrible_ , but it's warm and comforting and gives him a slight rush of caffeine to get him through this.

“Okay,” John says Then he is silent for several minutes while he tries to collect his thoughts again. “So.”

“So,” Sherlock says, taking a sip from his mug and grimacing. “This is disgusting, I hope you know.”

“I'm aware,” John says, sighing. “Right. So, Jack. How old would you say he is?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Initially I would place him in his mid thirties, near our own ages. His mannerisms would align with that deduction. I've a feeling you're going to correct me.”

“I am,” John says, nodding. “I'm not _actually_ sure how old Jack is. I don't know that he's entirely sure on that count, to be honest.”

Sherlock almost looks shocked. John isn't sure if it's because he finds the idea of memory lapses offensive, or if the idea of an ageless Jack Harkness is what did it.

“The best I can guess is that he's at _least_ a thousand years old,” John begins.

Sherlock stands abruptly and begins to walk out of the trailer.

“ _Where_ are you going?” John asks, bewildered.

“If you're going to mock me, John, I can sleep in the car,” Sherlock says. He actually sounds angry, which surprises John – Sherlock isn't the type to get angry because someone is mocking him or insulting him. He doesn't care _what_ people think of him.

“I'm not mocking you,” John says. “If you would sit and listen to the rest of the story, you'd understand more.”

Sherlock freezes. “You're _serious_? He's ten centuries old? How is that even _possible_?” He sits back down, his mind obviously churning out ideas already.

“Stop _thinking_ ,” John chastises. “It's a long story and I don't even know all of it. I _do_ know that it starts with a man. _Not_ Jack.” John sits back. “From what I've heard from Jack, he doesn't even really have a name. He just goes by The Doctor...”

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

The sun has got most of the way through the morning before John and Sherlock wake up after each catching several hours of sleep. Their talk had gone on until the sun was about to rise, but Sherlock had eventually accepted the things John told him as truth. It speaks, John thinks to himself, of the trust the younger man has in him.

He doesn't know if he deserves such trust.

John opens his eyes and blinks, coming awake almost instantaneously. His blue eyes meet grey; their beds are directly across from each other and they have both just woken up. Sherlock is blinking sleep out of his own eyes, 

“Do you think,” Sherlock begins, his voice rough from sleep, “that we might be able to get a _decent_ cup of tea this morning?”

“I doubt it,” John replies. He sits up in bed and stretches lightly before letting his feet fall to the floor of the trailer. 

The two men dress in silence; John took a shower at the communal bath set up at the center of camp after Sherlock finished quizzing him that morning. As he doesn't smell bad, John assumes Sherlock did the same at some point. Now all that's left to do is find something to eat and a steady supply of caffeine: John has no doubts as to how long today is likely to drag out. He's been with Torchwood for too long to assume otherwise.

The two of them grab their gear (it is entirely possible that the trailer will be commandeered by some other pour souls in need of a place to kip for a few hours), and John follows Sherlock toward a large olive drab Army tent. It's the sort of tent that John remembers vividly from his days with the RAC: four meters wide by eight meters long, with a dirt floor. It is, naturally, a mess tent.

The food looks to be better quality than military rations, and he deduces that it's catered in from the nearest town. Either way, the eggs are delicious and while there's no tea, there's absolutely palatable coffee from a local cafe. 

About halfway through their breakfast Jack comes to get the two of them, having successfully run a translation matrix on the chip. “It's all ready for you,” he says, nodding at Sherlock. Then he stands and, to John's delight not only gets himself something to eat, but scrounges an entire urn of the coffee for the Torchwood team.

While Sherlock sifts through piles of data, John begins studying his autopsy findings from the night before, immediately recognizing and forcing himself to learn several potential life-saving techniques. Nothing he can implement at a public level, of course, but things that may save his team's arse at some point in the future.

Rhys is standing watch at the door, boredly reading a magazine while he does so. Gwen is performing an internet search looking for mentions of mechanical men anywhere in the world. She's simultaneously initiating an algorithm Jack created several months previous that hunts out any occurrences of specific words on any computer or airway traffic: in this case, “Dalek,” “The Doctor,” or “Cybermen.” She's having problems with that one, as it keeps spitting back instances of “Doctor” that don't refer to the man but the occupation. John's picture comes up several times, in conjunction with Sherlock's.

Rhys and Gwen look so heartily bored that John actually considers suggesting a break of some sort. 

Jack is in the middle of an earnest discussion with Rex about something security-related when Sherlock makes a vaguely annoyed sound and announces that he's completed his analysis. 

“Already?” Jack looks surprised. “It hasn't even been an hour.”

Sherlock gives him a look that clearly says he's bored with dealing with this level of incompetence and plows forward in the conversation. “The Cybermen seem to be under the impression that the Daleks contained within the ship were deceased. They captured the ship to attempt to reverse-engineer the shielding and other advanced weaponry available on it.”

Jack and John both cross over to read the relevant sections on the terminal Sherlock is sitting at. Then they look at each other.

“Fuck,” John says. He thinks it's rather eloquent, personally.

“Fuck,” Jack agrees.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

They spend several frenzied hours trying to come up with a plan. The problem is that all they know exactly what the Cyberman _want_ (Dalek technology) but have no idea what they're planning on actually _doing_ with it. It's a shot in the dark, honestly.

“This is ridiculous,” John says, rubbing his hands down his face. It's not even 5 p.m. yet, but he's feeling like he ran a marathon. “Absolutely ridiculous. We don't even know if we're their target.”

“We're _always_ their target,” Jack negates. “Always.”

Rex looks just as annoyed as John is, and he stands up and makes an excuse about arranging dinner.

“Not from where we ate last night, please,” Sherlock calls after him in an absentminded manner. He's already memorized the entire history of the Cybermen that Jack can tell him and is searching for clues in the data again. So far he's encountered nothing: The Cybermen don't dally with subterfuge. It is, John reflects, somewhat refreshing to have an enemy that doesn't actually lie to you.

Not that they're composing epics or anything, either.

Rex comes back thirty minutes later with marginally better food for everyone. The general mood of the group raises, which surprises neither Jack nor John. What _does_ surprise them comes halfway through the impromptu meal.

The computer terminal that Gwen has been working at lets out a percussive _ding!_ , drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Gwen frowns and stands, looking at the terminal.

“I think someone has noticed us, Jack,” she says in an unsteady tone. Sherlock and Jack both join her at the terminal.

“Noticed us? From running a bloody _search_?” Rhys says.

“It's the algorithm,” Sherlock replies. He reaches out and taps on the keyboard. “I imagine someone has been looking for it, specifically, which means that we're most likely dealing with another time-traveler. Someone who knows you, or knows _of_ you.” At this, his eyes turn to rest on Jack. Then he glances back at the computer and taps some more, before swearing rather creatively. 

John finds himself impressed with Sherlock's vocabulary.

“They've found us, whoever they are,” Sherlock says, throwing a disgusted look at the computer terminal before striding back to the table. “The query didn't come from too far away; they should be here within the next half-hour.” He takes an aggressive bite out of his hamburger, chews, and swallows. “We may as well finish our meal.”

John thinks this is sound advice and takes a bite of his sandwich as well.

“So we're just going to sit here and let this person find us?” Rex says. John can tell that he doesn't think very highly of this plan.

“If our searcher had been intent on finding us with no warning, we would have no idea we'd been searched out,” Sherlock says. “They're _very_ good; good enough to easily cover their tracks. I can only imagine one of two scenarios: Either they wanted to let us know they were on the way because they mean us no harm, or they wanted us to know they were on the way because they want us to fight before they strike us down. In either situation, it does not behoove us to take to arms.” He raises his eyebrow. “Besides which, do you think you can break an entire CIA camp in less than twenty-five minutes?”

John takes another bite of his sandwich. Rex turns to him. “Is he always like this?” he says, his hands at his sides and clenching. John imagines that he's restraining himself from all-out attacking the younger man.

“Pretty much,” John says, shrugging. “You learn to take the good with the bad when you work with Sherlock Holmes. It's _mostly_ worth it.”

Sherlock looks very much like he wants to preen.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Torchwood, Rhys, and Rex made up a smallish welcoming party. The tent they'd been using for their research was set up near the edge of the clearing, and they stood behind it awkwardly, hoping beyond hope that the rest of the encampment didn't realize what was going on before it was too late.

Rhys and Sherlock neglected to withdraw their weaponry; Gwen, Rex and Jack were of another mind entirely and made sure their guns were plainly and easily visible. John kept his gun in easy reach but out of sight: he rather liked the element of surprise.

They're there for several minutes when a woman of absolutely average size and appearance walks into their sight. She takes one look at the weapons and throws herself to the side; her sudden movement startles Rex and Gwen into shooting. The sound suppressors on the guns muffle the noise, but John thinks it's probably too much to hope for that an entire camp full of trained killers didn't notice the kerfuffle.

The woman dodges her shooters and runs toward Rhys and Sherlock. She manages a tidy bit of nerve-work; unwillingly, Sherlock lets out a pained cry and falls to his knees. His arms are both pinned behind his back and he is utterly at the woman's mercy. To no one's surprise, there is now a gun aimed at Sherlock's temple.

“You'll stop pointing your weapons at me, gentlemen, or the pretty one will be in a _world_ of pain.”

She is, astonishingly, British. Or at least speaks in a very good imitation of such. For some reason, this startles John more than anything. And then, very suddenly, he is _angry_ : he just got Sherlock back, and there's absolutely no way that some skinny bint is going to take him away again.

He's moving before he really realizes what he's doing, dodging Rhys and coming around from the woman's other side. She strikes out with the hand that's holding her gun, but John dodges easily enough, ducking down and hitting her in a rib before backing off and dodging her hand again.

He ducks to her other side, her right side, kicking out and spinning. She's good: she jumps over his foot and avoids his attempt to floor her. Unfortunately, she didn't see John's backup plan and walks directly into his left arm, which is swinging around to her right again. It catches her in the throat and startles her: a moment's inattention is all John needs. Before she regains her voice, her gun is in John's hand, and she is laying on the ground behind Sherlock.

“Fair warning,” John says, examining the gun absentmindedly (from some undetermined point in the future: energy weapon. If the dials make any sense whatsoever, it's not set to kill, but of course they wouldn't have known that). “If you ever threaten 'the pretty one' again, I'll make sure it's the last thing you do.” He stops and smiles. “Outside of begging for mercy, at any rate.” On the ground, Sherlock smirks at John and then stands up, dusting the dirt from his knees.

Before she can retort, he's got her flat on her stomach with her hands behind her back. Rhys snorts and hands him a set of plastic handcuffs.

“Less than two minutes,” Jack comments as they lead their prisoner into the tent. “That's gotta be a record.”

Sherlock makes a noise of an indeterminate nature, but doesn't actually comment. Probably for the best, as Jack doesn't need to know that John has, in fact, disarmed and disabled men in less than thirty seconds to save Sherlock's arse before.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

Rex leaves to go talk the CIA down while Jack and John ensure that the woman can't escape. Sherlock swings in halfway through and undoes all of their work, fixing it himself. When they're done, the woman tests it and looks at Sherlock with respect.

“ _Very_ good,” she says. “You must be Sherlock Holmes. Which means you,” and she looks at John, “are John Watson.” She looks around the room again. “I'm not sure who the black man is, but I know that must be Gwen Cooper, which means the man standing next to her protectively is her husband, Rhys Williams.” The woman grins, almost ferally. “Process of elimination leaves me with you, Captain Jack Harkness.” Her bright stare is now focused on John's former lover, and he resists the urge to get protective again. Jack can handle himself; for that matter, so can Sherlock. Why did he bother, again? “Torchwood, naturally, would be _very_ interested in a crashed Dalek ship, even if it is in the Americas and out of their jurisdiction.”

“Torchwood doesn't _have_ jurisdiction,” Jack negates. He looks her over, for once not undressing her with his eyes. John wonders at the dereliction: Jack views everything with an eye toward sex. “Who _are_ you?”

“My name, Captain, is River Song.” She smiles again and leans back in the chair, lounging.

There is a tense silence for several minutes before Jack finally asks.

“Why are you here?”

“You were looking for the Doctor. I make it my business to make sure that anyone looking for the Doctor isn't going to harm him.”

That brings John up sharply. “You know the Doctor?” he asks. Jack looks very much like he wants to strangle this woman.

“Know him?” River laughs. “Doctor Watson, he's my _husband_.”

“The Doctor's married?” John blurts out. He _knows_ he looks stunned: Jack was absolutely convinced that the Doctor was all but asexual. When he'd told him that, John had laughed and thought to himself that the Doctor and Sherlock would make a fun pair at parties. 

Now, the thought isn't funny in the slightest.

“The Doctor doesn't have a wife,” Jack says. John can tell he looks slightly hurt and betrayed, but only because of very, very long and close association with him. Unfortunately, Gwen and Rhys have also known Jack for a long time, and Sherlock is hyper-observant. Everyone in the room knows at roughly the same moment that Jack Harkness is very suddenly _jealous_ of this woman.

“And yet, here I am,” River says. She cocks her head. “If it makes you feel any better, Captain, initially we wed to save the universe.”

“She's telling the truth,” Sherlock interjects. Jack stares at the rest of his crew, willing them to come to his defense. John feels a sinking in his chest.

“Jack,” John says, softly. “If Sherlock thinks she's telling the truth, she probably is.”

Jack stares at River for several seconds before storming out of the tent. John sighs, closing his eyes briefly in consternation, and then follows his friend.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

John catches Jack at the back of the tent, near where he'd initially captured River Song.

“Jack,” he says, grabbing him by the arm.

“Leave me alone,” Jack says, throwing the arm off.

“Jack, come _on_ ,” John says. “This is no time to be flying off in a jealous rage. We _need_ you, here.”

“Jealous?” Jack is pacing now, in the ten foot space between the tent and the trees at the edge of the clearing. “What would I have to be _jealous_ about?”

An angry Jack Harkness is a dangerous Jack Harkness, and John knows this. He thinks of and discards several potential replies to that comment before finally responding.

“You love the Doctor and he married _her_ ,” John says simply. “Jealousy _would_ be the appropriate response, but if I've got it wrong, feel free to correct me.”

Jack laughs; it sounds slightly hysterical. He keeps pacing.

“Look, Jack,” John begins.

“No,” Jack negates. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see that Gwen, Rhys, Sherlock and River Song have all joined them behind the tent. He wants to ask how River got out of her restraints but, well, he's slightly busy.

“No what?” John says. He thinks this is a reasonable request.

“No. I'm _done_ with this,” Jack says, slicing his hand through the air decisively. “You can sit around pining over your asexual consulting detective if that's what pleases you, John, but I'm _done_ waiting around. The Earth can save itself.”

With that, he turns and storms into the woods.

John stares after him, mouth agape. Gwen looks at John, a pained expression writ upon her face, before dashing after the captain. John closes his eyes and swallows, hard, and turns toward Sherlock, opening his eyes to take in the expression on the younger man's face.

Sherlock looks stunned, somewhat insulted, and _terrified_. At once, he turns and flees. John doesn't even consider going after him: if he's lucky, they'll still be alive after they've sorted all of this and they can deal with their crumbling friendship at that point. For now, though, there are more important matters to attend to.

“Now that you've ruined everything,” John says, closing his eyes in pain and turning back toward River, “would you like to explain to Rhys and I why we shouldn't kill you?”

River opens her mouth to answer, but before she can, an _ungodly_ noise fills the air. River huffs.

“The _parking brake_ , you ruddy idiot,” she says, loudly. The noise ends, and John turns toward where it came from.

There, behind the tent, against the backdrop of the woods, stands a dark blue police box. And in the doorway stands a funny-looking man.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

The Doctor and River Song certainly act like they're married, and John is privately very glad that Jack isn't here to see her launch herself at the man. 

“Leaving me in Rochester was naughty,” she says, grinning up at him from her embrace. The Doctor laughs and returns the hug.

“I knew you needed to be there, love,” he says. His grin is wide. He turns to look around. “Where's Jack? I'd been looking forward to seeing him again.”

“Just missed him,” John says, tightly. “Probably for the best, to be honest.”

The Doctor's expressive face falls. “What happened?”

“Oy, stop blocking the doorway,” an annoyed voice says from behind him. “ _Git_.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” The Doctor says. He jumps out of the way, letting a red-headed woman and a dark-haired man out of the box. It must have been very, _very_ crowded in there, John thinks to himself.

“He seems a bit mad, doesn't he?” Rhys says. Then he stands upright, tensing in recognition. “ _Rory_?”

The dark-haired man spins on his feet and turns towards Rhys. “ _Rhys_?”

The two of them break out into grins and stride toward each other, catching each other in a manly hug. John is pretty sure that the look of confusion on his face is echoed in the faces of everyone else in the clearing.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Rhys is saying, jovially, when John turns his attention back to the two men. “And how do you know the Doctor?”

Rory grins. “My wife – this is Amy, by the way, my wife – and I travel with him. We're also sort of his in-laws, but – well, it's a long story. I can't believe you're here! I haven't seen you since – God, I don't know, when was the last time?”

“Aunt Jenny's wedding,” Rhys says, grinning. “Gwen and I would have made it up for yours but there was a bit of a situation with Torchwood, alien invasion.”

“Oh, so you're working with Torchwood now?” Rory says. The two men fall into the pattern of throwing information at each other before John gets fed up with it all.

“Oy!” he yells, waving River's gun in the air. “You two! Situation! Saving the world from Cybermen!”

The both of them look sheepish and scratch their heads.

“Sorry about that,” Rhys says, grinning. “This is my cousin Rory! We've known each other since we were kids! Best mates before his parents moved them up north.” He gives the smaller man a friendly punch to the shoulder. 

Amy looks at Rory, mouth agape. “But he's _Welsh_!”

Rory looks defensive. “And you're Scottish! What's wrong with being Welsh? My da's Welsh, I'll have you know!”

“As much as I love a family reunion,” The Doctor says, “we might consider abandoning it for now, seeing as we have about...” at this, he pulls a pocket watch out and looks at it. “Ah, yes, about an hour before this clearing is going to be destroyed. We need to evacuate it!”

“ _Excuse_ me?” John says. He finds himself rapidly running out of patience with this Doctor of Jack's.

“Yes, dreadful business,” The Doctor says, letting River go and moving through the tiny space erratically. “Yes, we need to get _everyone_ out of here.”

John closes his eyes again, inhales, and then opens them. “Right. You lot stay here. I'll be right back.”

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

John is looking for Rex. He is surprised to find Sherlock first. He grinds his teeth. 

“Sherlock,” he calls, jogging toward the man in question. “I don't have _time_ to talk about this right now. Go back behind the tent. The Doctor showed up and I need to find Rex.”

Sherlock blinks. He looks very much like he wants to say something, but nods instead. “Rex just went into the dining tent,” he says, vaguely gesturing as he heads back towards the tent. There's a disconnect there, and John regrets it immensely, but right now he has _shit to do_.

Right now he can't be bothered to worry about whether his friend is horrified, angry, mortified, embarrassed. He _can't_. There are lives at stake.

He keeps telling himself that as he briskly walks towards the tent. He nearly slams directly into Rex as the other man exits.

“Whoa, doc, what's up?”

“Jack's little friend,” John says. “The one with the blue box. He showed up.”

Rex drops the cup of coffee he'd been holding on to. “The Doctor?” Rex hisses. “ _Here_?”

“Here,” John confirms. They're both being quiet, but the fact that they've stopped is going to draw a crowd. “Look, you can come talk to him yourself if you want, but he says we need to evacuate this clearing, that it's going to be destroyed in an hour or so.”

Rex pales visibly, no mean feat considering how dark his skin generally is. “For real?”

John nods. “I'm not sure why but I trust him on this one. You might want to get your guys out of here.”

“What about you?”

John laughs, a little hysterically. “Well, we're Torchwood. We'll find a way out, right?”

Rex looks at him, assessing, before nodding. “I'll get it taken care of. You guys do your thing. And if you get out alright...well, let me know.”

“Will do,” John says. They shake hands; it feels oddly formal.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

When John gets back to behind the tent Sherlock has disappeared again. Rhys and Rory are both talking to each other excitedly, as are River and the Doctor; the latter two seem to be exchanging information from matching blue notebooks. Amy notes John's reappearance; she looks irritated. Her arms are crossed and she's leaning against the TARDIS.

“Your boyfriend went that-a-way,” she says, pointing towards the woods.

“ _Not_ my boyfriend,” John says automatically, wondering how she picked up on the tension between the two since she'd not seen them together. “But thanks.” He strides towards the woods.

It doesn't take him long to find Sherlock, who is apparently searching for Jack and Gwen. John silently joins in the search. It takes them the better part of twenty minutes to find the pair.

Gwen has somehow managed to pull Jack from his funk, but he's not doing well, not at _all_ , and John isn't entirely certain that seeing the Doctor is going to help matters. Alas, circumstances have conspired against them and he breaks the news.

“The Doctor showed up,” he says, bluntly. “The clearing is going to be destroyed in about thirty minutes, and we need to go. _Now_.”

Jack's head shoots up at the mention of the Doctor and before John finishes his explanation he's striding back toward camp.

John sends Gwen an exasperated look and follows his ex-lover.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

By the time they get back, the camp has been mostly dismantled. Their tent is still there but Rhys has propped the side up and has begun backing up all of their information onto a single hard drive to take with them. Sherlock immediately jumps in to help him. John wonders how Rhys figured out how to back up hard drive information before jumping in with Gwen to pack up the rest of their gear, pulling it from the tent.

They've just finished when Rex's team starts dismantling the tent and clearing out the CIA property. Rex takes that moment to come check on them.

“Are you guys coming with us? There's room,” Rex says to Jack.

“No, they're coming with me,” The Doctor says. “Actually, we'd better get going.” At this, he claps his hands together and darts toward the TARDIS. John rolls his eyes expressively at Rex; how Jack could ever have fallen in love with this madman is beyond him.

Then again, John fell in love with his own madman once upon a time, so he supposes he doesn't have much room to judge. He sighs theatrically.

Rex is staring at them, bemused. “How are you all going to fit in there?” he calls out. John's thinking the same thing: there are eight of them and while he's fairly certain that (in cubic centimeters) they would all fit, it's not going to be comfortable in the _slightest_.

“It's bigger on the inside!” call back Jack, Amy and Rory. The three of them stop, look at each other, and begin to laugh.

 

**\+ + + + +**

 

They were _not kidding_ , John thinks to himself as he takes in the interior of the TARDIS. It's immense: rooms within rooms, he's found, and at one point he stumbled and almost fell into what he thinks may have been a swimming pool.

He's wandering around attempting to avoid Sherlock. The fact that Sherlock seems to be doing the same has led to the two of them accidentally running into each other a number of times. Finally, John gives up and just goes back to the main area.

Jack is nowhere to be found, and the look Gwen shoots him as he re-enters tells him that the other man is sulking somewhere. 

God save him from sulking men in great coats.

Almost as if called, however, Sherlock and Jack both re-enter as well.

The Doctor grins and claps, as if he's emphasizing a point. “I _love_ that feature. Our clearing is about to be decimated, and I figured you might want to see who's responsible.”

He flings the door to the TARDIS open and John gapes.

They're in space. Looking outside of the door is the Earth; taking a moment to lean out, John recognizes that he can still breathe and that the moon is to their left. He steps back, his eyes wide.

Sherlock is behind him. He makes a noise that, if it had come from _anyone_ else, would be characterized as a squeak. Turning, he takes in the expression on Sherlock's face: the detective looks terrified. 

John blinks. “Agoraphobe?” he asks.

Sherlock frowns. “Apparently,” he says, distastefully. “Strange. I've never had any problems on Earth.”

“Well,” John says, grinning, “I can see how that would be overwhelming.” He points toward the door, where everyone else is gathered. For a brief moment, they both forget Jack's declaration and grin at each other. Then they remember and things become awkward.

There's a flash and the crowd at the door collectively gasp. John joins them; Sherlock does as well, but he keeps a hand on John's shoulder. 

John tries not to read anything into it.

“Holy –“ Rory says, awed.

There is a flash of the most intense light, and John suspects their clearing is now destroyed. That thought is chased out of his head a second later when he sees what did it.

It's a ship. It's an immense bloody _spaceship_ , almost the size of the moon, and it's coming directly for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've ever attempted to write the Doctor.
> 
> It's fairly easy for me to write someone like Jack or John, or even Sherlock - all of them fit within my realm of experience (either I have friends like them, or I AM like them). The Doctor is a wholly different beast, and so if anyone has any concrit about my characterization of him, or any tips on writing him (or any of the people I'm using here) I would really, really appreciate it. Come at me, bro!
> 
> Edit as of May 20, 2012: I have gone through and edited this story, changing a few things around (mostly just for language reasons, not story reasons). Now that that's finished, I'm about to start writing to it again, so keep your eyes open.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.


End file.
